


America's Suitehearts

by ussgallifrey



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Medical Procedures, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Nomad Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21715195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ussgallifrey/pseuds/ussgallifrey
Summary: Life on the run rarely lived up to the glamour that was portrayed.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Reader, Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s), Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 50





	America's Suitehearts

The mission went south almost immediately after the doors to the abandoned warehouse were opened. Life on the run rarely afforded the luxuries of such insurance as having readily available back-up. And while one half of the team remained in the public eye - or under house arrest in two cases - you valiantly remained at his side. And that was the Achilles heel of the situation.

Louisiana summer rained down with a vengeance that a New York upbringing left you rather unprepared for. The open windows of the beater truck - with its broken air conditioning, of course - drove over the hazy black-top rivers of backcountry vastness. Kicking up dust and rocks as it sped through empty farmland. Natasha and Sam had dipped over to New Mexico for intel while you remained at his side.

And you certainly hadn't planned on anything happening in their absence - hoping to reclaim a moment of reprieve, if you will, between running and fighting and clawing to survive. But between the diner off the main road and the blatantly out-of-place men congregating in the corner booth, his mind had easily been made up.

Scarfing down the greasy breakfast behind a low baseball cap. Your legs propped up on his lap under the table. Swirling the straw through the ice water - droplets forming on the side of the glass and running down your finger as you glanced up at your companion behind hooded eyes. Sugar-sweet syrup coating the tongue that poked out to swipe your lips.

His demeanor gave nothing away, though he was clearly listening in on their conversation - super-hearing comes in handy more often than not. And with the group abruptly leaving, it only took a moment to throw some crumpled-up dollars down and head to the door. 

Under the pretense of looking at travel brochures and carefully displayed pies under the fingerprint-smeared glass case, you were able to follow the car's path. With enough distance put in place, you hopped in the passenger seat and took off after them. The ride was silent outside of the steady thrum of the tires and occasional creak of the engine.

Words, conversations, long heartfelt declarations were rare and far in-between these days. There was no need, let alone time for them. If the split hadn't happened, maybe you would be on a date in the park. Hands looped around his waist as he drove through the streets of the city on his motorcycle. Lounging happily on the plush couch at the compound with the rest of the team. 

But that wasn't your life anymore.

And he felt that guilt every day with it. Despite your reassurances those first few weeks, the wall had slowly slipped in place. Now, almost a year into this vagrant nomadic lifestyle, it was rare to see that golden-haired man you had first fallen for. Summer love and cherry-sweet as innocent touches and flirtations grew. Turned to magma, gunpowder, tantalizingly ice-cold bitter love.

His stoicism hides the grief well. The guilt that eats away at him each night, with a burn only you can soothe with feather-light fingers on his brow and lips. Occasionally his gaze will be drawn from the road to you and then you might see the spark in his eyes, but only for a flash of a moment. A hand might dare to squeeze your thigh, but not much else.

Darling, sweetheart, babydoll. Puppy dog love, teasing cautious going steady cupcake baby love. No more.

Before this, he would have demanded a larger team for the mission. But now, now he was reckless. Even where you were concerned, despite his best intentions. And with no shield to his name, it was even more disturbing to witness. The fearless charge of Icarus and Ares. Out for blood and flying too close to the sun, to a death, he seemed to welcome more often than naught.

The sure thing, across all lines of low-level criminals, is their repetitive nature. Barely ready guards at the entrance easily pushed aside. The next, startled shouting and untrained shooting. It doesn't take much to disarm them at this point, not with all the practice you've had lately. Even tiresome in some regards. How boring, only AR-15s? Surely, even these guys could manage something more interesting - something more challenging.

And of course, after wading through a group of guards, there's the split option. Left or right, up or down. Either way will lead to something of value - their boss or their goods. Sometimes illegal arms, sometimes drugs, and the worst of times  _ people _ .

This is not one of those times, luckily. He takes the upper floor on a hunch of finding the man in charge. And you descend the rickety metal steps to the basement without so much as a spare glance each other's way. There'll be time for that later, in a motel off the beaten path, bandaging each other up, trading long kisses and reassuring caresses.

Under flickering caged lights, you find the cargo. Spilling over, barely contained or organized. Three pallets in total, probably worth a pretty penny to a crime lord higher up on the food chain. 

An easy anonymous tip to local authorities will have it cleared up by the weekend as most cases went for you these days.

Barely subtle footsteps have you pivoting and ducking a badly thrown punch. The guard stumbles with the momentum of his swing, at least a hundred and fifty pounds of muscle on you. But you're quick on your feet in comparison, darting around him in such a way as to wear him down. Any punch you deliver will be worthless on his mass anyway.

He lunges forward, trying to sweep you up into his arms. You jump onto his forearm and wrap yourself around his back, arms going tight around his neck as you settle on his broad shoulders. The guard flails, trying to bring you down, but you just hold tight.

This leads to you being pounded into a wall. And somehow, he has enough air left to fumble for a broken off pipe, which he then tries to hit you with but to little avail.

Finally, he succumbs and slowly collapses forward onto the dirty concrete floor with a heavy  _ thud _ . Standing with a stretch, you feel the bruises already forming and hope to god that that'll be the worst of it. Giving the unconscious man a kick in the head for good measure, you're ready to wrap this up and meet up with your partner when you hear it.

A distant little  _ puff _ of air. Followed by creaking and groaning and then -

You run for the stairs as the illuminated hallway starts to cave in from the explosion. The walls crumble and break as the dust flies Your heart races with adrenaline as you slide towards the metal staircase, only for it to collapse in a heap of rusted iron. Who the hell has a self-destruct button anyway? It was almost comical. And maybe you'd laugh and scoff if the roof and upper floors weren't starting to fall down.

As sheets of metal and concrete cascade in an ungodly horror, bits of wires and metal and wood coming down on top of you, blinding your sight with clouds of debris. You scramble, coughing and hacking, trying to find your way as quickly as possible. If you can make it to the doorframe, a support beam. If you can just -

" _ Agh _ ," you gasp, only to struggle to even cough. 

You can't see anything and your chest aches, you can't breathe and you're struggling, you can't - oh, it hurts. It hurts so damn bad.

_ Asses, goddammit, remember your training. _

Unable to see, feeling trapped under a heavy blanket of darkness, you reach out, only to immediately come in contact with something solid. You try to push, with your hands, with your chest, and even with your legs - but nothing happens besides a sharp shot of pain. Burning like molten metal as it sears through your arm. Traveling right through your veins, screaming ahead like a locomotive before colliding with your brain as fireworks and shrapnel explode behind your eyes.

You try to call out, but it feels like you have a mouthful of dirt. Spitting furiously, you finally manage to croak out, "St _ -eve." _

Hoping, praying that he's okay, that he can hear you at all.

" _ Steve! _ " Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Concrete crumbles and breaks off in the distance, something muffled and far away. A sense of being underwater, at the bottom of the ocean. Drowning, down down down. And then -

"Sweetheart?!"

Your senses flood with relief, head falling back to the ground as you attempt to scream back, "Steve!"

Sheetrock and slabs of concrete are pulled and thrown until a halo of sunlight breaks through the darkness. You shield your eyes from the onslaught as a sigh of relief catches your attention. Carefully squinting against the light, his face comes into view. Bloodied and bruised. Blue eyes shining with something desperate and wide with terror.

"Just a second, baby. Almost got you."

He grunts and heaves until he's down at your side. And from there, he pushes against the slab that has you pinned down. Groan turning to a feral scream as he shoves the broken-off piece of flooring from your aching body.

And then he's kneeling at your side, assessing the damage. Fingers tracing your face with absolute fear.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he crumbles with a drop of broad shoulders, head bowed in anger. But not at you - never at you.

"Hey, Cap," you manage with a weak smile. Your mouth stings with iron - thick and heavy as it coats your tongue. 

He resigns himself with a nod, hands moving under your head and legs as he lifts you up - cradling you carefully against his chest. 

You hack and wheeze as more debris flies, filling the air with clouds of dust. It stings your senses, blinds your vision even further. 

Steve tucks your head in closer to his chest, "Come on, baby. Let's get you out of here."

The journey to the truck is a complete blur. But the wail of sirens in the distance spurs him on as he floors the gas. Your head jostles roughly against the window as the smoldering warehouse disappears in a plume of smoke in the mirror.

And then you notice the hand holding yours. Fingers entwined, resting on your leg. Gaze traveling up the dirty arm, past the open cuts, to the concerned face of your love. Eyes focused on the road, but every ounce of fear still gracing his features.

From there, things get even hazier. There's a voice in your ear. But it's distant and far too insistent. The dark seems welcoming and easier, tugging you down into the depths of unconsciousness. Into the void where even nightmares can't reach you.

* * *

" _ Hnnng _ ."

You feel immediate agitation as you try to snuggle further into the pillow. Another tug on your arm has you groaning, but it's quickly followed by a sudden yelp as your eyes shoot open and you struggle to sit up.

"The fuck was - what are you doing?!"

Steve eyes you carefully before giving a gentle push on your shoulder, forcing you back down onto the bed.

"Stay still," he murmurs. Gathering the rag in his hand as he gently blots at the festering wound on your left arm. One you hadn't really had the chance to notice earlier.

You watch him, methodical in his movements. All of you were, unfortunately, rather used to home-nursing by now. Evac wasn't an option on your table anymore. The best you could do sometimes was a bottle of whiskey and a makeshift tourniquet until a real professional could be sought out. Not that you minded when it was you, of course. But being on the other end, watching the one you love being treated? It was a completely different battlefield.

"What happened?" Your voice comes out sluggish and rough.

Blue eyes briefly meet yours before dabbing the rag in Isopropyl alcohol and continuing on with the deep cut. Hands moving slowly, feather-light as you wince from the sting.

"Homemade bomb."

You grind your teeth before managing, "No shit?"

A sliver of a smirk appears. And then you spot the needle in his hand.

"Oh, come on. How bad is it - "

Sitting up to bring your arm into view - oh, yeah. It was that bad. Without another word, you lie back down.

He's efficient, you'll give him that. Suturing like a pro, tying it off in a small knot before dropping a kiss to the untouched skin right next to the stitches.

As he moves on to other, far smaller cuts and bruises, you're able to take in the room. Another motel, another day. Bright orange walls with grungy white popcorn ceilings. And you swear the picture by the bathroom was in a place you stayed at three weeks back as well.

"Where are we?"

He doesn't even look up from where he's examining your ankle, "Thirteen miles from the Texas border."

Giving a little nod, "You made good time."

Your foot is carefully lowered onto a stack of folded white towels, elevated enough where it isn't uncomfortable. And then he's moving up your body, hovering above you with hands positioned on either side of your head.

"Well," he starts. "I had precious cargo."

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, "Still cheesy. I appreciate it in these trying times."

His eyes flicker with something reminiscent of easier times. "Thought you would."

Warm lips, chapped lips, scabbed over and still holding a hint of blood, meet together. Careful, veering on gentle. Desperation slowly slips in. Fear bubbling up from the mission rears its head as Steve takes the lead in deepening the kiss. Tongue darting out to pull the pain from you. Mingling and twirling with your own. Hands eager and ready to roam and claim. But as you go to reach up to his hair, a sharp inhale has you reeling.

The welcomed weight and warmth of his body is gone in an instant as he sits up, carefully holding your arm in the palm of his calloused hand.

He studies it for a moment, "Wasn't sure if it was - " a slight pull has you wincing with a wave of pain.

Sitting back, Steve rubs at the back of his head, " You, uh, wanna take a shower?"

Strong and demanding gives way to strangely innocent at the mention of you being unclothed. But you take it in stride. Beckoning him back with your good hand.

"Only if you help me, Captain."

In simpler days, it was fun. Something exciting and bold and downright erotic. Now, it's convenience and comfort. Slipping out of torn and bloodied clothes, easing pants down and toeing off boots. Watching each other undress down to the barest of forms. The shapes and grooves never change. The injuries do, spackling the skin in strange new patterns.

Steve, as always, looks worse for wear underneath his civvies. He'll heal by tomorrow, where you'll have a nice limp for a few more days. A sling for much longer.

He gets the water going. The old faucet groans and creaks as a dribble of water trickles out. The shower pressure isn't right, but it's hot and he's there helping you into the tiny white tub. Holding you steady by the waist as he takes the first burst of water.

You let your good hand wander up to ruffle his hair - so much longer than you had ever seen before. It grows dark under the pelt of the showerhead. Droplets cascade along the edges of his face, dripping down his beard, before landing on your nose.

He takes great pleasure in the feel of your hand on his scalp. Working a lather in with the complimentary soap, digging your fingers in to get the remaining dirt and debris from his golden mane. 

His head dips back into the stream. Your fingers travel down, following the bulge of shoulder and bicep. The swell of forearm, the broad plain of chest. And then you're spun around and a wave of pleasure falls over you with the spray of water.

A bottle uncaps and then strong fingers are easing their way through your hair. Gently pulling and pushing and digging a lather in. Your head falls to his chest as he holds you against him. Soapy hands press in along your back, easing the aches of the mission from your body. Leaving a trail of kisses along your shoulders.

You linger as long as the water allows. And then Steve's helping you back out onto the cold white tile floor. Carefully drying your body down with the scratchy towels. He does a quick dry for himself before scooping you up and carrying you back into the main room. You feel lightheaded by the action.

Another version of yourself might have blushed. Another version of Steve would have found the entire thing downright scandalous to be walking around like  _ that _ . Completely naked with his girl in his arms. My how the times had changed. As if  _ this _ was the most daring thing you'd done together.

He pulls the sheets back on the bed before setting you down. The comforter, which had a few fresh bloodstains mixed in with the hideous floral green print, is quickly rolled down. With your back against the headboard, Steve props your right leg back up on a pillow. Fingers careful and light trace the smooth skin of your bare leg. Lips press down on your knee, calf, the top of your foot, trying to ease that pain in the way only a lover can.

Steve momentarily gets up in search of his duffle bag. A bit of rummaging produces the roll of bandages and medical tape. The entire experience of watching your partner wrap your ankle is something that just warms your very soul. It's so incredibly domestic and sweet. Domestic for you two, that is.

Your arm will have to wait. He'll, no doubt, be making a supply run after you fall asleep. Some quick meals, a sling, more condoms. Definitely more of those.

He finishes with a kiss to the fresh wrapping. Sliding down the bed, pulling the pillows with you to rest your head on, Steve moves in beside you - pulling the covers with him.

It's still early enough in the night for the setting sun to break through the white vertical blinds. You leave the TV off for the meantime. Mr. Serious will be keeping a more watchful eye as you recover and therefore will force himself to stay away from the news (in your presence, anyway).

The thrumming AC is welcome in the humid room. Between the lingering heat from the shower and the near-constant furnace temperature radiating from Steve. The sheets are crisp and cool, the twinges of pain fade as the comfort of having him right there, holding, caressing, bringing you down.

"'m sorry," he admits with a whisper against your neck, nose nuzzled in tight.

Your fingers glide slowly up and down the forearm draped across your stomach, "Hush. I'm not accepting apologies for things out of your control right now."

You can feel his eyes open, he's probably trying to stare you down, but you remain happily in the dark of your closed eyelids.

"Sweetheart," it's deep and throaty, a heavy husk of gruffness trying to break the spell.

There's a quick pinch to his arm and a following hiss of displeasure. 

He's unrelenting in his unending self-guilt, so you force your eyes open and catch the worried sea of blue.

"I mean it, Steven. You're gonna give me a headache. So, can you just shut up and hold me?"

It's like an order. And he only takes them from one person now, so he obliges. Framing his body around you, but being mindful of your elevated foot and pained arm.

You can't stand to see him so stuck in his own neverending thoughts, the worry sits right on his brow for all to see. With your right hand, you drag a fingertip over his cheek. Along the curve of his lips, the rough hair of his beard. The damp mane of gold deserves the carding of your fingers. He relaxes into it, the tight stretch of lines ease on his face as you feel the thrum of his heart.

It's comforting as always. It sings,  _ I'm here and I'm not leaving you _ . For now, it's something to focus on. Something to draw you down into the heavy drape of sleep. He'll be here when you wake, probably fully healed too. But he'll watch after you, care for you until it's time to move on. Another city, another mission.

But it's just the way your lives run now. And you wouldn't trade it for anything. So, with the warm musk of your golden hero love settling in, you allow yourself the luxury of falling asleep in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on my [Tumblr](https://ussgallifreyfics.tumblr.com).


End file.
